The National’s revival of Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ is a spectacular and classic rendition of a play that on its own is already an excellent piece of work, writes Madeleine Kelly.
Before you even take your seat in the Olivier Theatre, the set gets your heart going. A glimpse of the sparse meeting house through Es Devlin’s curtain of rain introduces a cold world of absolutes. Tim Lutkin’s lighting creates an eery gloom that, regardless of changes in tone, does not lift in all 2 hours and 55 minutes of the play’s runtime and yet remains hair-raising.
The play is faithful to Miller’s original – Lyndsey Turner has not decided to reinvent the wheel – but the play, for those familiar with it, does not feel stale. There is the climate of fear in Salem that develops into a frenzy and then, finally, into rigid devastation. There is the dawning horror that no reason may be heard, only paranoia. And then there is Abigail’s delusional and ultimately destructive desire for the tormented John Proctor.
It is this desire that Turner’s play does not quite know what to do with. Erin Doherty’s Abigail, whilst realistically desperate and manipulative, is also a petulant child. In her pinafore, she skulks across the stage with the physicality of a pre-teen. Whilst this might age the actress down it renders the relationship between her and the married Proctor an almost too hideous aberration. Whilst he is always guilty of abusing the power imbalance, in this version his sin is uncomfortably criminal.
Brendan Cowell’s Proctor is distinctly human. His American accent separates him from the lofty almost Shakespearian Proctors of past versions. It must be said the American accents do not work for everyone and are patchy in places but do a lot to bring the production down to earth, especially for Proctor. His salt-of-the-earthiness (worker’s shirt and all) makes his internal wrestling and slow journey towards goodness less lofty, more flesh and blood.
There are other noteworthy performances, Eileen Walsh’s Elizabeth is a perfectly anxious and yet steadfast balance. Fisayo Akinade’s Reverend Hale appears irritatingly assured at the beginning, certain that his witch-hunting work is only for the benefit of the community. But as he watches his seniors use the trials to satisfy their own political ends, Akinade embodies his anguish. Ultimately there is little of the first man left as he leaves behind his faith to encourage the accused to save what he believes is all they have left, their lives.
In the end, though Turner’s bewitching production does not deviate particularly from others, its story – without really having to try – remains relevant. The dangers of a government that elects to listen to its worst and most paranoid self is sadly fitting. As is the question of what we have left to do when it seems nothing can be done. What we might owe each other, what we might owe ourselves.
National Theatre, South Bank, Sei until November 5th. Times: Mon – Sat 7.30pm; Wed ‡ Sat matinees 2pm. Admission: £20 – £86.
Booking: www.nationaltheatre.org.uk
